


Guilt

by Lidsworth



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Forced Voyeurism, M/M, Melkor casts spells, Psychological Torture, and of course Celebrimbor lives up to his reputation as a second generation Feanorian, but no child is actually harmed physically, celebrimbor happened to be there, graphic depictions of rape, melkor steals finwe from formenos when he gets the silmarils, mentions of child abuse, of course he tortures them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 02:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8038588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidsworth/pseuds/Lidsworth
Summary: Finwe does what he can to ensure Celebrimbor’s safety in Angband.  But there is only so much he can willingly offer Melkor. And sometimes, Morgoth demands the unthinkable of him.OrThe Silmarils are not the only treasures of Feanor that Morgoth steals from Foremenos.





	Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> I want to apologize for any errors. I was working on this around midnight and probably skimmed over a ton of errors. But I need to clear space on my computer, and this fic was long overdue anyway.   
> That said, please, please give me feedback! This wasn't easy to write, and I'm always very nervous about my works! Your feedback makes me happy! 
> 
> Long story short, Finwe gets captures in Foremenos, Celebrimbor as well.

To Finwe’s utter horror, Tyelpe _bit_ the hand of Morgoth.

He bit him. Wounded his fingers perhaps harder than Feanaro’s own Silmarils did. Certainly, he was his grandfather’s grandson, for his rage at  his treatment at the hands of Melkor had overridden his rational fear, and the _moment_ that the Dark Lord had made to run his fingers through the elfing’s hair (for what reason, Finwe did not know), he had gone insane.

Where his sense had gone, Finwe was uncertain, yet it did not change the fact that Morgoth currently dangled his great-grandson above a fiery pit, blackened fingers loosening with every kick and scream the boy threw at Morgoth, who threatened to throw him into a pit lava.

Surely Feanor was strong in this one, for even in the face of the Valar, he stared him in the eyes with an impressive glare.

And had Finwe not been forced on his knees with Mairon’s nails digging into his shoulder, he would have certainly taken Celebrimbor’s place. Yet where his actions failed him, his voice did not. And as Tyelpe’s collar dangled on the tip of Morgoth’s nail, Finwe spoke.

“Morgoth, you coward, release him,” shouted the king from beneath Sauron’s claw, “Is it not _I_ that you want, am I not the beloved father of Feanaro, the creator of the Silmarils? Do not waste your energy on a child. Take _me_ instead.”

Truthfully, he already had. Many times before. And his body ached with every bruise and scape, cut and tear afflicted onto him by Morgoth.

Finwe only hoped that for all their time trapped in the dark Halls of Morgoth, the Dark Lord had not tired of his body. He had, before this moment, promised himself that he would not be taken unwillingly again without putting up some sort of fight. And he would have given Melkor _hell_ had Tyelpe’s life not depended on his potential corporation.

Realizing what his offer entailed, Sauron growled above Finwe, fingers _piercing_ into the meat of his shoulder. He tensed with pain, which only aggravating the growing wound. Yet he did not allow such agony to dissuade him.

Even as a considerate silence passed between them, in which Morgoth presumable weighed his options, Finwe refused to relax. He was a solid brick beneath the Lieutenant, lips drawn into a thin line and gaze penetrating the dark Vala.

Finwe bit his lip, eyes darting quickly between the small elf and the Dark Valar. Tyelpe did not have much longer before the heat itself cooked his skin, far before the molten metal would.

“Such strong words from a bedside whore,” Snarled the Dark Lord as he stilled the elf’s wandering gaze, “But I expect nothing less from the father of Feanor himself. But you have been spent…”

Then he stopped and looked towards Tyelpe, a dark tongue licking his dry lips. There was a sick desire in those coal eyes which bore down upon the tiny Feanorian as if he were a piece of meat.  

“You…on the other hand, have not been,” cooed the Vala as he brought a long nail to the boy’s smooth cheek, “If I cannot taint the Silmarils, than I can certainly take you. Your great-grandfather is not as…entertaining or pure as you.”

However, Melkor’s eyes turned upward, as if he were caught deep in though. The finger that caressed the boy’s face suddenly came to his grey chin, “ _But_ he is stronger, and you would die a bloody mess before I even got to finish.”

It was a great relief to Finwe that Morgoth had decided against raping his great-grandson, and against his better judgment, his shoulders slacked beneath Sauron’s nails.  Though his unease rose again at Melkor’s next words.

“And that would be far too kind. I want to make you suffer.”

The thrill in his voice had burned Celebrimbor worse than the tendrils of heat below had. 

  
  
Though Morgoth’s initial intimidation had failed in frightening the boy (for Tyelpe would have fought till his last breath had Morgoth actually gone through with burning him), his words had succeeded. Those lips had cursed civilizations, had twisted his grandfather’s will.

And now he had promised to make him suffer (at least death by fire was certain; tangible. Morgoht’s curses never were).

It was a fluid motion, in which Melkor had adjusted Celebrimbor under his arm, and stalked towards his Lieutenant and Finwe.

“Follow me to my chambers.” He strode past the maia as he spoke, “I have something glorious instore—for both of them.”

Both Great-grandfather and great-grandson no doubt envisioned the worse possible scenarios as they were dragged to his chambers. Finwe feared for Celebrimbor’s safety, feared for his life and his sanity. But whatever the god had in store for them, whatever horrors lay within his dark bed chambers, Finwe promised himself that he would protect Tyelpe.

* * *

Morgoth’s bedroom had not changed since the last time Finwe had had the “pleasure” of occupying it. It was still insanely large, furnished with dark furniture, and a dim lamp that hung by a chain above the bed, which was immense as well, despite the ainur’s size.

Yet Finwe did not expect any different from the former Vala, whose elvish appearance was as much of a farce as his once submissive persona.

Now free of Mairon’s grasp, Finwe was free to move.

Only out of instinct, did Finwe nearly migrate towards the bed. He wanted to get it over with quickly.  Though at the sound of small whimpering, he stiffened beside Mairon. He would not throw himself a top of Melkor’s bed, nor would he offer him his body when his Tyelpe would be standing right there.

That was sure to scar the boy, and guilt would soon follow afterwards, guilt stronger than what Tyelpe _already_ burdened. It was well known that he blamed himself for their current predicament, and being forced to witness the ravaging of Finwe would no doubt add on to his self-loathing.

Though what Melkor would do to him—to both of them, terrified Finwe. He already wanted to make Tyelpe suffer.

But how? Loss of limbs, loss of fingers? Oh Eru Finwe hoped not! He loved to use his hands. The boy was an artist, a budding prodigy. To take away his hands would mean a loss of purpose. But why wouldn’t Melkor? Would it not make sense to ensure the complete extinction of Finwe’s line? To prevent another of Feanor’s descendants from creating another jewel—another _weapon_ that could harm him?

Finwe gulped as Melkor carried the child into the room and commanded that the door be closed upon the dismissal of Sauron. The maia glared daggers at the two elves as he was made to leave, baring fangs at Finwe just before he left.

Against his better judgment, Finwe scanned the dark vala for any sharp weapons. Yet averted his eyes when Morgoth caught his, looking quickly at the ground instead.

Suddenly, there was a chair beside the bed, a chair that had seemed to spur from nowhere, for clearly Finwe had not seen it before. It was here that a pale faced, wide eyed Tyelpe had been carried to. With feigned tenderness, Morgoth gently placed Celebrimbor onto the large chair, patting his head sweetly.

Wide eyes filled to the brim with tears, and he frantically, he looked for his grandfather’s gaze for comfort.

Yet as soon as the Vala removed his hand from the boy’s dark hair, he went rigid and stiffened. And his eyes, already large with fear, grew as big as dinner saucers. Frantically, his pupils moved around the room, limited vision searching for Finwe. However, his body remained still, so utterly still.

He looked like a doll.

“Morgoth, what have you done to him?” Fear rolled off of him like the light of the trees, yet his concern for his grandson overrode his reason.

“Nothing that will last forever,” Morgoth replied casually, “Though is he not better off silent? Without the constant—“

Finwe saw red, and forgetting himself, snapped: “Have you hurt him?!”

“I have not _hurt_ him,” Morgoth hissed, offended by the elf’s sudden rise in courage, “Though you certainly will.”

Despite his situation, Finwe tilted his head. He shuddered at the horrors that his last sentence called to mind. If he could control Tyelpe’s movements, than perhaps he could control Finwe’s as well…

Suddenly the elf felt sick to his stomach, and his dread was evident on his face.

He could not dwell on it though, for Melkor’s claw had found itself on the back of his collar, and without much warning, flung him a top of the bed. He nearly jolted at the sight of Tyelpe’s horror filled, glass eyes staring directly at him.  

He was so scared.

Yet Finwe had no words of comfort to offer him, could provide no words of encouragement to his clearly petrified great-grandson, for Melkor’s body was upon his within moments.

There were fingers at his waist, slipping underneath the silk sash that bound his robe together. It wasn’t before long that the dark fabric slid off of his body, revealing pale skin underneath the cloth. For his own sanity, he had learned early on that letting Melkor have his way usually spared him the bulk of the pain. Though at the time, Melkor had been the only other person in the room besides Finwe.

There was no traumatized child sitting on a chair, frozen in place by some cruel spell forced to watch.

Wanting nothing more than to preserve what little innocent Celebrimbor had left, Finwe struggled against the Dark Lord’s fingers and attempted to shove his prying hands away.

“Tyelpe is—“

At his outburst, Melkor struck him hard across the face, and despite the spell placed upon his great grandson, he was almost certain that he heard him gasp. His head rattled as if there were bells in his brain, and he could taste copper in his mouth. For a moment, Finwe was completely dazed, and the dark room spun around him. His limbs felt heavy, and he barely registered Melkor tearing the rest of his robe off, or the fear that emitted from the child beside them.

It wasn’t until his knees locked over Melkor’s shoulders and his body was partly lifted did he return to his senses in a foggy haze.

Melkor spoke. To whom Finwe could not say. Though with a slap to his face, that melted into a tender caress, he quickly regained his senses.

“Tyelpe is the reason that you will suffer tonight, my King Finwe. I will make you scream and I will make you bleed, and with every drop of blood I spill, with every ounce of seed I force into you, I want the grandson of Feanor to know that it is because of _him_ that I do this. His actions against me will be punished, though I will take comfort in knowing he will see your mangled body and know that it is his fault.”

This time would be different (though the lack of oil and proper preparation should have told Finwe that already) and would hurt, hurt enough to make him scream. He was no stranger to Melkor’s previous bouts of painful sex, though he had never taken him dry before.

And poor Tyelpe would blame himself for everything. And the sight would not be a pretty one at all.

His sympathies for his great-grandson were cut short, for without warning, Melkor plowed deeply into his opening, burying his dry length into his body was far as possible. Finwe gasped in pain, eyes wide and fingers fisting into the sheets. Melkor withdrew quickly, only to force himself in again, setting an erratic pace.

Melkor dropped his head into the crook of Finwe’s neck, inhaling his sweaty skin as if it were a life source. Then there were teeth at his shoulders, aggravating the Lieutenant’s previous wound, feasting into the tender meat of his muscles until it drew a steady stream of blood.

Between the tearing at his shoulder and the ripping in his opening, Finwe was sure that his entire body was a bloody mess. His chest gleamed with it as the red liquid oozed down his shoulder, and he could already feel his thighs coated in it, so much so that it slicked his opening enough for Melkor to thrust into him somewhat painlessly (though the ache from his first time was still there).

It did not occur to him that he was indeed screaming until his lips were silenced with those of Melkor’s copper tasting ones.

It was a hard kiss, the shock nearly overriding his pain.

They continued like this for what seemed like hours. Melkor tore him apart, kissed him, licked him and made him scream. His fea struggled to leave his body, yet Finwe willed it to stay, in fear of what would fate befall his great-grandson at his departure.

And Oh…poor Tyelpe. When given the opportunity, Finwe had caught the boy’s gaze, had seen the look of complete shame and guilt in his eyes. That was, of course, before his expression had hardened, and the look on his face had become void of all emotion. Finwe had wondered what was going on in the boy’s head, what kind of blame he was shouldering.

That perhaps hurt more than the physical assault.

* * *

When they finished, Finwe was a bloody mess, _just_ like Melkor had promised. He left, after adjusting his own clothing. But not before patting Tyelpe on the head, and breaking the spell.

“I hope you enjoy the mess you’ve made, Tyelpe. Perhaps next time, you will take this into consideration before you bite me,” he cooed, smirking as he stroked the boy’s tear stricken face, “For next time, I’ll kill him in the most brutal of ways, with you sitting right beside me. Perhaps I’ll even let you hold the knife.”  

Had Finwe been able to, he would have scooped the child into his arms. He would have told him that none of this was his fault. But Tyelpe would not believe it to be so, even if Finwe had the chance speak.

Yet at the moment, the King hung on to his soul as it threatened to leave him, despite his own meddling.

He could not move an inch of his body, could not cover himself nor shield his great-grandson from himself, for the pain was far too great.

“T…yl…pe..” he managed dryly; pleadingly. While he could not reach the elfing, _surely_ the boy could walk over to him. Right? The spell had been lifted, there was no reason that he should still be on the chair.

Only, there was. Guilt.

“I’m sorry…” whispered the child, “I’m sorry…”

The apologies came in quick successions, eventually melting into broken sobs that filled the entire corridor. It pained Finwe more than his rape.

And outside, he could hear Melkor howl in laughter. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! As I said, I apologize for my errors. Click the kudos button if you liked it! Tell me how you felt, I love your feedback! Also, if you follow my other works, I'll be updating (or trying) the one with a reborn Mairon next, because that's long over due. 
> 
> So if you follow that, I'll update. Again, please give me feedback! Critiques welcomed! 
> 
> Have a wonderful week!


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